


The Scarlet Ribbon

by The_Real_Fenris



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aphrodisiacs, Bipolar Disorder, Drinking to Cope, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Gangbang, Kink Meme, Light Bondage, M/M, Opium, Promiscuity, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Slash, Suicidal Thoughts, Tentacle Sex, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-14 22:29:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 11,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4582524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Real_Fenris/pseuds/The_Real_Fenris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the kink meme: "Dorian is a massive slut who is sleeping with the vast majority of men in Skyhold. This is a very agreeable arrangement for everyone involved."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Inquisitor

**Author's Note:**

> I am ashamed that I am writing this trash. I'm not even going to make an attempt at including anything resembling a plot. Nope. Just scene after scene of Dorian getting it on with basically every male at Skyhold. Smut scenes will become progressively more smutty as we go along.
> 
> I looked deep in my heart, and I don't think I can write Dorian/Varric. Everyone else, though - fair game.
> 
> I always write Dorian as a good guy, so I am making this my opportunity to write him as a troubled man who isn't very nice.
> 
> Comments, crits, and kudos are welcome!

It begins with the Inquisitor.

They’ve been flirting almost since the moment they’d met in Redcliff. Dancing around each other in Haven. Teasing among the dusty tomes in the library of Skyhold.

And then, in Dorian’s most vulnerable moment, the Inquisitor kisses him.

A coy kiss. Warm as a summer’s breath. Soft as ermine hide. Sweet as candied dates.

Had a man ever kissed him like this before, with such promise?

Quite simply, no.

Dorian invites himself to the Inquisitor’s quarters. Offers himself up like a coin for a fountain so that the Inquisitor can have his wish. Lets the Inquisitor flip him down to the bed. Like in a romance novel, clothes seem to magically melt away, revealing muscle and skin. Dorian lathes the Inquisitor’s cock with his tongue. Thrusts back against the Inquisitor’s fingers, wanting _more, Maker, more, more_. Moans with wanton abandon as the Inquisitor’s steel-hard cock slicks in and out, in and out, as his fingers bruise Dorian’s hips.

After, Dorian talks. Wonders, wanting. Where this is going. If it is only just a bit of fun. That perhaps it would be best to end this now, rather than later, because later it would hurt more.

The Inquisitor answers. Thin line of full lips moving in slow motion, words tripping, falling, filling Dorian’s heart with shards of glass.

 _Later it would hurt_ more.

It is one of Dorian Pavus’ many lies.

 

*****

 

Dorian Pavus is not a nice man.

He is what his companions believe: spoiled and pampered, flashy and arrogant. He thinks too highly of himself, and his sharp tongue cuts down anyone who dares to disagree with him. And he is an expert in the forbidden arts of necromancy.

That is the side of him that he lets others see.

What his companions don’t know about him:

That he is an unrepentant slave owner. And that he’d been fucking his family’s elven slaves since the moment he’d figured out that rubbing up against them felt good.

That the life he’d lived in Minrathous was sinfully decadent: all night bacchanalia, heavy intoxicants, slap of flesh against flesh with random men, all in the halo haze of opium smoke.

That – in his youth, as an act of rebellion against his father – he dabbled with blood magic.

That, as a necromancer, he can animate the dead for his own amusement, and conjure demons to divine the future, or give him the power to manipulate other men’s minds.

That he was born with an imperfection – other than his predisposition for the company of men. Since he was fifteen, Dorian has suffered from a malady commonly known as _fire in the brain,_ which causes extreme swings of mood. One month, he would wallow, apathetic, in the depths of despair; the next month would thrust him into the whirlwind heights of manic delight.

To self-regulate his mood, Dorian drinks. He’s become proficient at hiding how heavily he does so. And he still smokes opium occasionally out of a beautiful pipe fashioned of ivory and jade.

Only after the Inquisitor does Dorian’s habit begin to quietly spiral beyond his control.


	2. The Iron Bull

The Iron Bull is the second man of many at Skyhold.

It seems inevitable somehow. The Qunari has made his interest clear as mountain lake water. That for Dorian he will leave his door unlocked.

 _It’s only a distraction,_ Dorian tells himself that evening as he stands before his looking glass, carefully arranging his hair, smudging a bit of khol around his eyes, straightening his robes. _A taste of forbidden fruit._

Having passed through that unlocked door, Dorian is intimidated and fascinated by the Qunari in equal measure.

 _Just a bit of fun,_ Dorian thinks, as Bull outlines the rules of his bedroom game.

Dorian submits.

Breath held as large hands – sword-calloused, gray-tinged – tear him greedily out of his clothes, discarding them carelessly across the floor. It is cold in the room, but Bull’s gaze scorches Dorian’s skin. He shoves Dorian to the bed, pinning him down like a specimen in a butterfly collection.

Butterfly Dorian – colorful, bright, with fragile wings as easily crushed as hopes and dreams.

Dorian doesn’t care. Whatever Bull wants. Bull with his ropes and straps and watch words. With his outrageously huge Qunari cock. Dorian has never encountered one that large before. At the sight of it, mast-stiff, Dorian licks his lips and shudders. It can’t possibly fit.

His body twisted, folded, ass in the air, on display, granting easier access. Thus arranged, Bull prepares him with generous use of oil and implements, increasing in girth, which he carefully inserts into Dorian’s hole. Still, it takes an eternity for Bull to push his way in, Dorian panting like a dog in summer as his body stretches to accommodate the Qunari’s massive cock. Finally, Bull is all the way in.

Maker’s breath, he’s never felt so full.

Icy pain and fire of pleasure mingling as Bull thrusts Dorian’s hair down into his face. He doesn’t even care if Bull splits him in two. He endures. Bites down on his lip, holding back the watch word. The word sits on his tongue, tasting of sweet honey and bitter ashes. Pain, glorious pain, masking the other hurts, making him – at least temporarily – forget.

 

*****

 

There were rumors about his involvement with the Inquisitor even before the Inquisitor kissed him.

Bull makes no secret that he and Dorian are lovers. In no time, everyone in Skyhold is talking about Dorian’s sex life. Mostly with disapproval. Even if they don't care about his predilection for men, not many approve of his leaving their beloved Inquisitor for a _Ben-Hassrath_ spy.

Still the rumors don’t turn vicious until the display at the ball at the Winter Palace.


	3. Gaspard de Chalons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene tastes like gang bang, with a hint of dub-con and public humiliation. Yeah, that's your official warning.
> 
> I am trash.

The man is old enough to be his father. That much Dorian can tell even behind the mask. Later, when the mask comes off, it’s clear he’s in his late sixties. Almost old enough to be his grandfather. Still, power is sexy, and the Inquisitor has just arranged it so this man is now one of the new rulers of Orlais. Gaspard de Chalons.

In their semi-private corner of the ballroom, Gaspard withdraws a small vial of intricate crystal, its facets twinkling in the light.

_Have you heard of this? It’s Madame Tullerie’s Love Potion #5._

Dorian has heard of it. An aphrodisiac, of sorts, from a famous Orlesian potion maker. Ecstasy in a bottle. There are similar concoctions in Tevinter: some to enhance pleasure, others to increase stamina.

Who knew that Gaspard de Chalons was a dirty, old man?

Sometimes Dorian’s tongue gets him into trouble. Especially after a few drinks, he will say whatever he thinks. And he certainly doesn’t give a shit that his current companion will probably be, after all is said and done, the one to end up ruling over Orlais.

 _Oh, is that how you get your kicks?_ Dorian drawls. _By pouring sex potions down young men’s throats and then dragging them off to bed?_

Below the mask, the man’s lips twitch into a smile. They are fine lips. Firm-looking. Despite himself, Dorian imagines them wrapped around his cock.

 _You strike me as a man who isn’t afraid to submit to his baser desires,_ Gaspard says. _To take pleasure in them. But, please – if I am mistaken, we will end the conversation here._

The liquid in the glittering vial, rose-hued, calls to him.

Dorian smirks.

_Then I guess you’d better start pouring._

Teasingly, Dorian tilts his head back and opens his mouth.

Gaspard pours.

Dorian doesn’t know what to expect. Almost immediately he feels his stomach grow warm. As Gaspard sweeps him out of the ballroom, down many empty corridors, and towards the guest wing, Dorian becomes keenly aware of the luscious sensation of his own clothes brushing against his now overly sensitive skin.

When the potion takes effect, it begins as an itch that Dorian is most desperate to scratch.

By the time that Gaspard whisks him through an open set of double doors into a large bedroom, Dorian is nearly an incoherent wire of unbridled need. To his surprise, there are people in the room. All men. Masked. Fancy crystal goblets held aloft. A private party.

Not what he expected.

Gaspard leads Dorian to the table in the center of the room, then gracefully withdraws.

Because of the potion, Dorian can’t quite think clearly. He’s in the center of the room, the center of attention. It slowly dawns on him that he’s the evening’s entertainment.

And that Gaspard de Chalons is a complete and utter bastard.

One of the men approaches him. Before Dorian can speak, the man’s hand skims over the front of his pants.

A moan, unbidden, escapes him.

He is harder than the steel of Cullen’s sword. His prick, his balls, his ass – everything hurts from the intensity of his need. Dorian is whimpering, grinding his hips against the stranger’s hand. Then he is wantonly pleading as the man unlaces Dorian’s pants to withdraw his raging hard-on, milking the seed out of it.

 _Oh, look,_ the man says to the room. _He’s made a mess._

Laughter rings in Dorian’s ears.

Dorian doesn’t care that he’s just come on the floor in a room full of strangers after a few quick tugs on his cock. He doesn’t care that they’re laughing. He doesn’t even care that the doors of the room are wide open, and that any passers-by can see the spectacle.

His cock is still hard. His body still consumed by need.

In a moment, the man has Dorian bent over the table, pants down around his ankles, the back of his red formal jacket pushed up over his hips, out of the way.

Dorian makes a garbled noise as the man squirts something cold, slippery, and floral-scented inside him. And then Dorian is choking on his own cries as the man shoves in and begins rocking into him in a relentless, rapid rhythm. 

It feels so good. Almost unbearably good. The stranger may have penetrated him roughly, but the potion guarantees that every stroke feels like mindless bliss. _Maker, this Madame Tullerie knows what she’s doing._

It is the last coherent thought Dorian has for a long time. His head is soft, unfocused, in a haze. Instead, he is lost to the pleasure. Driven by his insatiable need. As the first man pounds him into the table, Dorian comes again.

His cock is still throbbing. Still hard.

Next, he is stripped out of his clothes. Legs splayed as the crowd watches while the next man takes him on top of the table.

At some point, he is positioned on the bed – in _coitus more ferarum,_ as they say in Tevene. As one man thrusts teasingly into him from behind, another man traces Dorian’s lips gently with the tip of his member, seeking entrance.

Dorian parts his lips. Greedily sucks the proffered prick. Lets it fill his mouth, moaning around it as he comes again, this time soiling the sheets.

For hours, the men use him. Eventually, his balls are drained, so when he comes now, he comes dry.

He is contorted into a strange position. Partially straddling a man, with another man kneeling behind him, as both of their slippery cocks piston into his ass. A third slides into his mouth. Hands seize him by the hair, as the man fucks his face. Maker, it’s so good. So filthy good. Someone’s fingers pinch his nipples, sending new shock waves of pleasure throughout his body. He’s about to come again when he hears a familiar voice.

_What is going on here?_

Dorian barely registers the indignation in that voice. Nor Gaspard’s oily reply.

_What it looks like, Inquisitor. We’re showing the young man a bit of Orlesian hospitality._

Dorian doesn’t know what the Inquisitor says next because someone’s hand snakes between his legs, and he is swept away by another bone-rattling orgasm.

 _In that case, Inquisitor,_ Gaspard purrs, _Would you care to join in?_

 _Yes,_ Dorian says. _Fuck me, Inquisitor._ Except that he still has a stranger’s prick in his mouth, so his words come out as muffled moans.

 _I think not,_ says the Inquisitor.


	4. Commander Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is a sex-free chapter. But I think I've just established the Cullen/Dorian dynamic...

Morning light stabs through his eyeballs and directly into his brain.

The effects of the _Love Potion #5_ have worn off. He feels like he’s having the worst hangover of his life. His head throbs, his skin crawls, his ass burns, and his jaw is sore.

Right now, he wishes he had his pipe.

It takes him a moment to stir. He’s lying naked in a bed with two strange men passed out beside him. Neither one is Gaspard de Chalons.

There is only one other person in the room, sitting in a chair, and watching him.

Commander Cullen Rutherford.

Dorian scoots gingerly to the edge of the bed. He realizes that he has absolutely no idea where his clothes are. Standing causes his stomach to roll dangerously, but he manages to take a few steps and scoop his shirt up from the floor.

As he straightens, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the nearby wall.

His hair is a complete disaster. Touching it, he finds that some of it is stiff. He ponders that briefly before he realizes why. He has a vague memory of numerous men coming on him last night. On his chest. His face. His ass.

As he straightens, he feels their collective seed leaking out of him.

He is also covered with bruises. Mostly around his pretty throat. Another vague memory of a man vigorously sucking on his neck.

He tosses on his shirt. Finds his jacket next. Pants and small clothes are on the floor near the table, boots below.

Cullen watches him dress. With a look of utter disapproval on his face.

Stiff fingered, Dorian buttons up his jacket.

_Are you here for a reason, Commander?_

Cullen’s distaste seeps through his voice.

_I am here because the Inquisitor willed it. To wait until you’d finished with your night of... depravity._

_ Depravity?  _ Dorian busies himself with the buttons on the cuffs of his jacket.  _ Really, Commander? And here I thought I was merely fucking. _

Cullen snorts with disdain.  _ You don’t even know, do you? Word got out quickly about Gaspard’s little show. Everyone in the Winter Palace saw what you did. The Inquisitor. The Iron Bull. All of my men.  _

As he’s always suspected, Cullen is a self-righteous, pious prick. Maker, how he hates men like this.

_ Is that a note of envy in your voice, Commander? _

Anger flashes across the ex-Templar’s face. He thrusts himself up from the chair. A few quick strides and he reaches Dorian’s side. For a second, Dorian thinks the man might hit him. 

Instead, Cullen seizes him roughly by the arm, already dragging him out of the room, and down to the waiting carriages that would take them all back to Skyhold.

 


	5. Eustace Morris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valex_Charme requested a little Ser Morris action, so I've found a way to toss that in. Oh, and the title of the story comes into play.
> 
> I promise that the next several chapters will be Dorian getting down and dirty with the men of the inner circle.

They aren’t back long from the Winter Palace when two soldiers approach Dorian in the tavern.

He’s having a drink alone at the bar. Waiting for Sera. Who is, as usual, late.

He sees them coming from a mile away. Before they approach, they jostle each other with their elbows, goading each other on.

There are murmurings all over Skyhold about Dorian’s debauchery at the Winter Palace. Disapproving glances. Whispers. However, no one has dared say anything to Dorian’s face. Yet. Fortunately, he is still feared and reviled for being the necromancer from Tevinter.

Dorian’s gray eyes are steel as his gaze sweeps over the soldiers. His voice, however, is weary.

_I suppose you’re here to put a filthy queer back in his place._

The men exchange a look. Then one of them speaks. Hushed tone.

_Actually, we were wondering if you’d be interested in some company, Lord Pavus._

Dorian was expecting trouble, so this surprises him. He considers the soldiers again more closely. Both barely in their twenties. Hardly even men. One prettier than the other, but both blond. Dorian is partial to blond men, particularly those with blue eyes and fair skin, uncommon in Tevinter.

Dorian tosses a coin down on the bar. Rises from his seat.

_Come along, then, gentlemen._

Everyone in the tavern, in the courtyard, and in the Great Hall watches as Dorian leads the two young soldiers back to his room.

It turns out that they’re brothers. Maker, that’s even hotter. Dorian has had cousins before, but never brothers.

It is a straightforward affair. Naked, on Dorian’s bed, Dorian’s head bobs over the cock of the pretty one, while the other tongues Dorian’s shaft. After a few minutes, they have Dorian change position, so now he is blowing the other man. A hand curls around his cock, deliciously stroking, while the soldier’s tongue laps vigorously at his ass.

Whatever the boys want. Dorian doesn’t care. Finished with the preliminaries, they move on to the fucking. Oiled and dripping, Dorian pulls one of the blond’s hips down to the edge of the bed where he stands. Fortunately his bed is the perfect height. Spreading his legs, Dorian sinks into the tight heat of the pretty boy’s body, rewarded with a wet-lipped, open-mouthed moan. Behind him, the other puts one hand on Dorian’s hip, guiding himself to Dorian’s hole with the other hand.

Grinding his cock in a pretty boy’s tight ass, while having his own ass enthusiastically plowed feels amazing. His body filled to bursting with the boy's swollen flesh. His own sex deliciously sheathed in heat. 

Leaning down, Dorian steals a kiss. All hot breath and nipping teeth. Smiles indulgently as the boy below him strokes his own cock in time to the thrusts, chasing his own climax.

A pretty picture. Yes. _Yes, Maker, yes, Maker, yes._

 

*****

 

The odds of the bet are three-to-one. He and Varric made it early on, while they were still traipsing around in the Hinterlands, as the Inquisitor tried to drum up support for the still newly-minted Inquisition.

On the outcome of the battle with Corypheus, Dorian actually bet _against_ his beloved Inquisitor.

No one could ever accuse Dorian of being an optimist.

He figures they are going to die. All of them, everyone in the Inquisition. Since he is most likely going to die, it doesn’t matter what he does. And why not get some damn pleasure out of what’s left of his life? So when word gets around that Dorian’s bed is open to any man who wants him, Dorian doesn’t deny it. Or turn anyone away. Though when Dennet shows up, smelling of horse, Dorian orders him to come back after a trip to the steams.

Someone lets it slip that he’s acquired a few new nicknames. For his feat at the Winter Palace, he’s being referred to as _Three Dick Dorian._ Though people more commonly call him _The Whore of Skyhold._

He embraces his place in the universe. Steps into the role of Skyhold’s whore as easily as gliding into a warm pool.

To facilitate matters, Dorian first lays claim on a room on the second floor of the Herald's Rest.

Next, he makes a list of the items he will need and brings it to Eustace Morris, the quartermaster.

The quartermaster’s eyes scan down the list, widening a bit at some of the more scandalous requests.

_Ser Pavus, you can’t seriously waste my time with these... things. I have far more important matters to attend to. The courtyard renovations are still not complete. Nearly a third of the soldiers lack proper equipment. And, due to a missing delivery, the kitchens have run short of both flour and eggs._

Dorian considers the man. Young, blond and fair-skinned – exactly what Dorian likes.

 _You know, Ser Morris,_ Dorian says as he stealthily approaches. _You seem rather stressed. Perhaps I could do something to help you relieve some tension?_

The quartermaster does not protest when Dorian gracefully sinks down to his knees and opens his pants.

Dorian is good at this. He starts off with slow, playful licks, starting at the base of Morris’ cock and sweeping upwards, rolling his tongue around all sides of it. Once Morris is hard, Dorian softly kisses and licks the tip. He is rewarded with a throaty moan as takes the man inch by inch into his mouth, swirling his tongue teasingly around the head.

Dorian keeps licking and devouring. Getting head is best when it is wet and sloppy, so he lets his saliva run. He is rewarded with another moan as he sucks lightly, reaching to cup and caress Morris’ balls gently in his hand.

Relaxing his throat muscles, lips covering teeth, he gradually swallows all of Morris’ cock.

_Ser Pavus... so good... Maker, don’t stop..._

Head furiously bobbing, Dorian sucks harder. Wraps his hands around the man’s hips and grabs his ass, pulling him close and squeezing him tight. All the while, Dorian’s whimpers and moans of pleasure mix with the similar sounds he rattles out of the quartermaster, and each hum that the mage makes causes Morris to twitch and buck into Dorian’s face.

Suddenly, Morris jerks, shuddering, as he explodes in Dorian’s mouth.

Dorian draws back with a satisfied smirk, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. A bit dazed, the quartermaster stares down at him.

_I will... uh... see what I can do about those... umm... items you requested._

Flash of sly fox grin. _Good man,_ Dorian says. _Oh, and, Ser Morris? Do feel free to come round and try some of them out._

Once Dorian’s room is furnished, the curtains hung, silk sheets upon the bed, and a variety of oils, feathers, elixirs and toys stashed in the bedside drawer, he declares it open for business. Whenever he is available for sex, he ties a thin scarlet ribbon to the latch of his door.

It is an arrangement that suits everyone.


	6. Gordon Blackwall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite scene so far. I hope you enjoy it!

The scarlet ribbon is tied to the latch on the door. In a bow this time.

Or, at least it was, until a man limps in, the ribbon dangling from his rough warrior’s hand.

Mostly soldiers appear at Dorian’s door. Stable boys. Kitchen cooks. Commoners. The unwashed masses. Only on a rare occasion does he entertain some visiting nobleman or important dignitary, someone close to his own class. Dorian doesn’t care, though. He doesn’t discriminate when it comes to cock.

Still, other than the Iron Bull, no one in the Inner Circle has come to his room.

Until now.

Dorian is sitting in his chair, reading a book, which he sets aside as he scrutinizes the other man.

_You? Really?_

Blackwall shrugs, letting the ribbon fall to the nearby table. _Soldiers have a saying – when there are no women, a boy will do._

_Oh, there are no women at Skyhold, then?_

The Grey Warden makes that same lilting shrug again.  _None who want the attentions of an old man._

Dorian smirks.  _You know, self-deprecation suits you._

Eyes narrow. Scowl almost lost in that beard.  _Andraste’s tits, you really don’t ever stop talking, do you?_

Dorian rises from his chair. He’s taken to wearing just a dressing robe when he’s in this room, to save himself the trouble of dressing and undressing. Lazily adjusting his robe, he crosses the distance, smiling sultrily as his hand falls on Blackwall’s belt. 

_If you want me to stop talking,_ Dorian drawls, _perhaps you should find another use for my mouth._

Blackwall suddenly seizes Dorian by the wrist. His grip is tight, fingers rough with callouses, weathered with age. Startled, Dorian blinks up at him.

Dorian and the Grey Warden are not friends. In fact, he’s certain that the man despises him. Which means that Dorian enjoys antagonizing him, always happy to point out Blackwall’s common bloodline, his lack of intelligence, and his uncouth ways. Usually he just refers to the man as  _that hairy lummox._ Within earshot, of course. So he is actually surprised by Blackwall’s question.

_What do you like?_

_What... what I like? What do you mean?_

_During sex. What do you want me to do to you?_

_Oh. Well, you can do whatever you want. As long as it doesn’t lead to any permanent scarring... I should be fine with it._

_You didn’t answer my question._

Dorian pauses. Considers the man. He’s not really into men with beards, and no one in Skyhold is sporting one even half as impressive as Blackwall’s. He’d prefer not to have the beard anywhere near his face. Or his body.

_Very well. If you must have a suggestion, then you could go with the basics. Touch me and then fuck me._

_Position?_

_Ah. That depends on which way it bends._

_Bends...? Oh. It curves upwards a bit._

_In that case... on my back. Legs over your shoulders._

Blackwall is still griping Dorian’s wrist. With his other hand on Dorian’s shoulder, he twirls the mage gracefully around so that the younger man now has his back to the wall. 

Sword-calloused fingers reach for the sash keeping Dorian’s robe closed. The fabric parts. Silk slides from shoulders and pools on the floor at Dorian’s feet.

Blackwall’s large, calloused hands are surprisingly gentle as they trail down Dorian’s body. He didn’t expect that. Nor did he expect to get hard as Blackwall’s fingers curl firmly around his cock and begin to stroke him with purpose.

Fingers pinch his nipples, making him gasp. Hips snapping, Dorian moans softly as he thrusts into Blackwall’s fist. He hates that he’s enjoying this.

_Do it,_ Dorian murmurs.  _Fuck me now, you hairy lummox._

_Never thought you’d be so eager for common cock,_ Blackwall says with a soft laugh, but he is already maneuvering Dorian down to the bed.

_You don’t have to sound so fucking satisfied about it,_ Dorian complains.  _Now – pass me that tin on the bedside table._

He hates it more as Blackwall courteously slides his cock in, inch by glorious inch. Waits for Dorian’s command that he move. Then slides it slowly back until it’s almost all the way out before driving it back in again. With each stroke, Dorian shudders in pleasure as the head of Blackwall’s cock rubs up against that magical spot. 

And he absolutely hates the smug look on the Grey Warden’s face as he laces up his pants after, leaving Dorian a blissed-out and still-quivering mess on the bed.

_Shit, I hate you,_ Dorian murmurs. 

That does nothing to change Blackwall’s expression.  _See you next week?_

He hates this man unconditionally now. Despises him with all his heart. Detests him like the Blight. He hopes that an archdemon will fly by later and swallow him, sword and all.

_Ugh. Next Tuesday should work._

 


	7. Cullen Rutherford

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is that all you've got, Commander?" 
> 
> This scene was inspired by [To Beard the Lion](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3649692/chapters/8063535). Which I will recommend to you if like angry/rapey Cullen paired with a Dorian who is a bit fucked in the head. Good stuff!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cullen gets violent. (Did I tag rough sex? Good) Dorian likes it. Also some nasty dirty talk. You should probably not read this trash. Consider this your warning.

Dorian lounges on clean silk sheets, as the sunset paints his room in hues of orange and crimson light.

On the door the scarlet ribbon hangs.

On his bedside table, a small enameled box. Upon the lid, carved in elaborate detail and inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the image of a peacock. He reaches into the box, then rolls the small, sticky black ball between his golden fingers before popping it into the bowl of the pipe. Jade and ivory pipe stem clenched between his teeth as he conjures a flicker of flame on one finger.

Heady smoke fills his lungs. Like breathing in Heaven.

He is still lying among the silk sheets, wreathed in smoke, when the door opens.

Cullen Stanton Rutherford steps in.

The opium makes the world soft and safe, his thoughts slow and thick like honey.

A moment ticks by.

Cullen closes the door. Crushes the scarlet ribbon in his fist.

A devious smile curls Dorian’s lips up into his mustache.

_Well, well. Welcome to my humble abode, Commander. I can offer you cake or cock._ Dorian’s smile turns grows more wicked. _Oh, sorry, but I’m all out of cake._

Dorian shifts on the bed. As he does so, his dressing gown falls open. It isn’t an accident.

Dorian’s smile is pleased as he notes how the Commander’s gaze sweeps over his body before it falls hungrily to his cock. It confirms what Dorian has always suspected about Cullen’s tastes.

Serious as murder, Cullen’s gaze meets his.

_You should command me to go._

In that tone, a warning.

Dorian taps the ash out of his pipe, then sets it aside. Considers the Commander as he does so. Southerners are all barbarians, but Cullen is a fine specimen despite common class breeding: tall, broad of shoulder, dense with muscle, with light skin and honey blond hair. And, in Dorian’s opinion, the most handsome man at Skyhold. Cullen’s only apparent imperfection is a scar that zigzags across his upper right lip. Ever since they met at Haven, Dorian has wanted to lick it.

_And why would I wish to do that?_

Cullen’s hazel eyes are an angry fortress: cold, hard, imposing stone.

_Do you know how Templars put mages in their place?_

_If by my ‘place’ you mean on my hands and knees beneath you, then I’ll go there willingly._

_If I stay – I will hurt you._

Dorian feels a strange little flutter of thrill, deep in his body.

_You say that like it’s a bad thing._

Cullen’s nostrils flare. A hand falls to his sword, squeezing the pommel, as his hungry eyes set Dorian’s skin on fire. Setting his sword aside, he then issues his command.

_Come here, Dorian. Come to me._

Cullen fucking Rutherford. Ready to play. Eager, Dorian makes an effort not to scramble immediately to comply. Instead, he slips gracefully off the bed, not adjusting his robe, and pads slow panther steps to the ex-Templar.

Fierce eyes devour. _This is your last chance, mage, to send me away. If you do not – I will show you no mercy._

_It’s not mercy that I want from you, Commander._

Cullen rips the robe from Dorian’s body. He seizes Dorian by the face, then forces him back, slamming him against the wall.

Hard fingers dig into his jaw and cheeks. Armor cold and brutal against his skin. Breath caught in throat as Cullen thrusts his tongue violently in his mouth, bruising his lips.

Dorian claws at him. Handfuls of fur, slick metal, as Cullen’s body crushes him into the wall. His efforts ineffective. But if he wanted to, he could easily toss Cullen across the room with an unspoken spell. Murder the man with a simple hex.

Finally, Cullen draws back.

_Asshole,_ Dorian spits. _That wasn’t–_

Cullen doesn’t let him finish. Kicking a leg out from under the mage, he forces Dorian to his knees. Dorian yelps as Cullen winds one hand in Dorian’s hair. The other opens his pants to free his member.

_Shut up, whore, and suck it._

Dorian gags as Cullen shoves his cock past Dorian’s lips and halfway down his throat.

Instinctively, Dorian tries to jerk back, but Cullen’s fingers twist more firmly into his hair. He claws again, this time against Cullen’s legs, hips and ass, as Cullen repeatedly stabs Dorian’s throat with his semi-engorged cock.

_Stop fighting me,_ Cullen orders. _You know you want it. Take it._

Dorian tries to relax against Cullen’s relentless onslaught. Tries to breathe. Tears spill from the corners of his eyes.

Cullen smiles at Dorian’s tears.

Gradually Dorian submits. Fingers curling into the hard muscle of Cullen’s ass, holding him close. Gulping him down as the Commander swells against his tongue. When Cullen finally releases him, he gasps.

Cullen sees Dorian’s erection. Straining, tip glistening. A smile flickers across Cullen’s lips.

Dorian trembles. Liking Cullen’s mistreatment this much – Dorian is sick in the head. He can’t remember the last time he was this hard. Cullen hasn’t even touched it yet. Dorian desperately needs Cullen’s hand on it. His mouth. Shit, he’d settle for humping Cullen’s leg right now. Anything.

Dorian smirks. _Is that all you’ve got, Commander?_

_I told you to shut the fuck up,_ Cullen says, already leaning down to grab Dorian by the arm. Hauls him to his feet. Turns the bronze-skinned mage around before pushing him against the wall again, this time face first.

Cullen kicks his legs apart. Dorian doesn’t resist. Doesn’t _want_ to resist. Pained grunt as Cullen skips any preparation, and, with two quick thrusts, plunges all the way in.

Fortunately, Cullen isn’t the first man of the evening. So Dorian’s passage is still oiled. And because Bull was here first, the proverbial lid has been loosened. Still, he feels the burn of every stroke as Cullen jerks Dorian’s hips back and fucks guttural, animalistic noises right out of him.

Fur and cold metal against his back. Dorian gasps as Cullen’s teeth sink savagely into his shoulder.

He hopes it leaves a mark. He wants Cullen Rutherford to mark him.

The way Cullen relentlessly pounds into him hurts. But it feels good, too. Pain and pleasure mingling scrumptiously together.

It’s disturbing how much he’s enjoying this.

Dorian snakes a hand down to touch himself. But Cullen seizes his arm, then pins both of Dorian’s wrists to the wall with one of his own.

_No,_ Cullen hisses in Dorian’s ear. _You don’t come until I let you._

As punishment, Cullen fucks him harder. Cullen’s breath in his ear – rapid, hot.

Dorian whimpers. Thrusts into the empty air. Keens. _Commander..._

_Is this how you like it? Hard and dirty? Come on, beg for it, you fucking slut boy. You are my bitch now. You want to come? Beg for it like the dirty little fucking whore boy you are._

Naturally, Dorian begs.

Cullen’s hand slips down. Yanks between Dorian’s legs. It is Cullen’s only kindness. Half-sobbing, incoherent, Dorian arches his back as he peaks. He shrieks. Blood crimson against Cullen’s teeth as across the wall Dorian spatters his pearl white seed.

 


	8. Cole Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second (and final) non-smut chapter. But I couldn't resist writing this little scene with Cole reading Dorian's hurt.

He’s pretty sure that Cole doesn’t come in through the door. The spirit boy seems to just manifest out of thin air. And then hovers, while Dorian is trying to read, and enjoying a bottle of _Spiritus Draco,_ a Tevinter wine which Ser Morris recently gifted him.

_What’s a whore, Dorian?_

Dorian glances up from his book. _Go ask the Inquisitor._

Cole stares at him with his watery gaze. _But that’s what they’re calling you, so I’m asking you,_ Cole says. _What does it mean?_

With a sigh, Dorian closes his book, though he’s marking the page with a finger. _It’s a person who has sex with anyone._

Cole cocks his head. His face briefly disappears under his ridiculous hat as he thinks. _Would you have sex with me, then?_

Dorian sighs again. _First of all, you’re not even serious. And second – you’re not even human._ Dorian opens his book. _Now, if you don’t mind – I’m busy. Go find someone else to play with._

Cole watches Dorian’s eyes, moving back and forth, back and forth across the page. He listens. Listens to Dorian’s _hurt._ Finds the end of the thread of it, and tugs at it, letting it all unravel, invisible, in the air between them.

_White flash of teeth when he smiles. His eyes laugh. I feel the warm crackle of green energy as his hand passes over my skin. He tastes like summer in Qarinus. Why can’t I forget him?_

Dorian’s eyes snap up. Angry. _Cole. I’ve told you not to do that._

Almost indifferent, Cole continues to study him. _Do you want to know what the Inquisitor thinks of you?_

_No. No, I don’t._

_You’re lying, Dorian,_ Cole says. _Why are you lying?_

Dorian’s fingers tighten around the edges of the book in his lap.

 _He would have changed his mind,_ Cole reveals. _But when he saw you with the laughing masks, a tangle of limbs, ecstasy in your eyes, he didn’t want you any more._

 _Cole..._ Dorian gasps.

_I’m sorry. I was only trying to help, but I’ve made it worse. I’ve made the hurt worse._

_Just... leave now._

Into thin air, Cole vanishes. Leaving Dorian alone with his pain.

He rises from the chair. Sets the book down. Upon his desk is a sharp little silver knife he uses to open letters. Without thinking, he presses the edge of the blade against his wrist.

It would be quick, mostly painless, and easy.

Except that he promised himself that he would stay with the Inquisition, at least until they defeat Corypheus. Or until - more likely - Corypheus defeats them.

There is only one solution, then.

Dorian Pavus carefully sets the knife back down on the desk.

And picks up the pipe.


	9. Solas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all should have heard the conversation my writer friend and I had about mage-on-mage sex to brainstorm this scene. As soon as he said the words "fuck worm" I knew where this was going.

There is a rapping on the door. Clack of wood against wood. And then a familiar elf steps in.

Dorian, who is sitting at his desk, writing letters, immediately sets down his quill and stares in disbelief.

_You? You’ve got to be fucking kidding me._

Unperturbed, Solas closes the door behind him. In one hand, his magic staff. The other tosses the red ribbon aside. His eyes, blade-sharp, slide over to Dorian.

_I’ve heard that you are letting anyone make use of your body. So I’ve come to make use of it. In an experiment._

Not sex, then. No, of course not. This  _is_ Solas, after all. The man is clearly asexual. 

_That isn’t... ugh. Those aren’t exactly the terms of the arrangement._

_Oh. I see me. Forgive me, then. Apparently you are not a man of his word._

Dorian’s pride prickles. Eyes narrowed, Dorian regards him.  _What sort of experiment?_

_I have been researching the manipulation of Fade energy. As an offensive spell. I assure you, however, that I have no intention of inflicting pain upon you._

Dorian fiddles with the quill on his desk. Then he sighs.  _Fine, I will do as you ask._

Dorian doesn’t care. Whatever Solas wants. When instructed, he stands at one end of the room while Solas remains at the other, near the door. 

Solas lifts his staff. The crystal at its tip begins to glow. Then he casts his spell.

A dozen thick, tentacle-like ropes, glowing softly blue, seem to rise from the floor. Dorian holds still, curious, as the ropes curl, coiling about his arms and legs, slithering like snakes. Where they touch him, his skin tingles. It is not... unpleasant.

_Oh, yes,_ Dorian snarks.  _What every mage needs in battle – a magic octopus._

Suddenly, the ropes clamp tightly down around his limbs. Dorian shouts a garbled curse as he is lifted off the ground. Curses again as he realizes that Solas is smirking. At him.

_Not just any magic,_ Solas reveals.  _That is pure Fade energy._

Dorian marvels.  _Really? Fascinating. And you can make it take any shape?_

One of the tentacles rises. Once at Dorian’s eye level, Solas flicks his fingers. In response, the tentacle pulsates, now twice as thick, before it shapes itself into a sphere. 

It gives Dorian a dreadfully filthy idea.

_You know,_ he murmurs salaciously,  _if you’re going to touch me with the Fade, the least you can do is make it interesting._

_Is sexual gratification all you think about?_

Dorian smirks.  _I am truly a terrible man._

Solas considers for a moment. Then his fingers flick again.

The ropes begin moving. Coiling up Dorian’s arms and legs. Caressing him. Tingling wherever they touch bare skin. Fade fingers tug open the sash of Dorian’s dressing robe, slipping the silk from his body.

He is still suspended, supported by the ropes that are now roaming his entire body. He gasps, head thrown back, as the Fade energy coils around his shaft, warm and pulsating as it moves up and down, making him hard, filling him with need.

Solas is focused, expression unchanging, even as Dorian’s soft whines turns into lustful groans.

A slender tentacle slips down between his legs, warm and tingling as it presses into the cleft of his ass, rubbing teasingly against his entrance.

_Oh fuck yes! Solas! Put it in!_

Then, something he rarely hears: Solas laughing.

Dorian doesn’t care that Solas is laughing at him, because at that moment, the tentacle taunting him slips in.

It is slim, no thicker than a pinky finger at first. And... wet. It glides easily in and out of him, making him tingle deliciously. As the ropes continue to caress his body and move steadily over his cock, Solas gradually increases the size of the tentacle that is surging inside him.

Maker, Solas is fucking him. With the Fade.

Dorian writhes every time the tentacle pulsates inside him, head thrown back as he gasps for air.

Maker, it’s so slippery wet. Soon Dorian is stretched. Solas’ magic shaft is almost as big as Bull’s now. Except it doesn’t hurt. Combined with the feel of the other fingers moving over his body, it feels too good, rushing Dorian towards his peak.

A tentacle rises towards his face. Caresses his lips. Then thrusts itself like a warm, wet tongue into his mouth.

Every inch of his body tingles. He moans around the fullness in his mouth. Thrusts his hips back to take the Fade phallus deeper into his ass. Thrusts forward into the Fade fingers clenching and pulsating around his cock.

His climax obliterates him.

Dorian is scarcely aware of Solas lowering him down to the bed. Or the tentacles withdrawing. Or the familiar sound of a pen scratching across parchment, before the door to his room opens, then shuts.

Only much later does Dorian manage to pull himself off the bed and stagger to the desk to find out what Solas has written.

_Remember, my friend – magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him._

Dorian laughs.

 

*****

 

Varric is seated at a table in the corner on the second floor of the Herald’s Rest one afternoon, writing about the Inquisition.

If they all survive this, it will make a very good book. Though it would make a better book if everyone heroically dies.

From this table, Varric can see the various men who come and go to Dorian’s room. Most of them are frequent visitors. Today, however, is the first time that Dorian is visited by the Inquisitor.

The Inquisitor stops before the door. Hesitates as though uncertain. Then finally unties the scarlet ribbon on the latch before he enters the room.

Varric considers the story so far. He is painting the Inquisitor as a good man, in a flattering light. In this scenario, the Inquisitor still has feelings for the mage from Tevinter. Concerned, he goes to Dorian’s room. To talk to him. To make everything all right.

Or perhaps the Inquisitor is not a good man. In this scenario, he calls Dorian a whore. Maybe while Dorian, on his knees, hides his true feelings and sucks the Inquisitor’s cock. Yes, maybe it’s like that.

 


	10. Cole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That’s a good lad,” Dorian said. He stuck the pipe further into Cole’s mouth. “Now suck."
> 
> This scene was inspired by [How to Explain Pictures to a Dead Hare](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3463550/chapters/7600688). Before I read that story, I thought that Dorian/Cole was one of the grossest pairing ideas ever. But now... Maker help me, I'm kind of shipping it done like this. It's gorgeous and brilliant. Recommended.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, this is now my new favorite chapter.

Dorian sits before the looking glass.

The dressing gown, all pale-colored silk, accentuates Dorian’s beautiful bronze skin. The neckline plunges, framing his elegant collarbones, his beautiful long throat – Cullen’s most recent bruises already faded – and the smooth planes of his well-toned chest.

Flicker of flame, he draws from the pipe.

He leans closer to his reflection. Dabs a thin brush into the pot of khol. Lines his beautiful gray eyes with black. Waxes the mustache above his curving lips. Runs long, pomade-drenched fingers through his thick, dark hair, arranging it just so.

Halo of smoke round his head as he draws from the pipe once more.

Cole appears from out of nowhere again, perching behind Dorian’s chair, watching the mage smear a touch of shadow across the creases of his eyelids, gloss across his lips, a sweep of gold dust across the bones of his face.

His entire body should be covered in gold dust. Gilded. Like an idol of worship.

_Am I beautiful, Cole?_

Cole cocks his head. Like a curious sparrow.  _I don’t know, Dorian,_ he says.  _It’s so dark inside you. It makes you hard to see._

Dorian picks up the pipe. Meets Cole’s gaze in the mirror.

_Why do you insist on coming here, Cole? I’m certain I told you to leave._

_I’m curious, Dorian._

_About what?_

_About sex. About you. About sex with you._

Smoke curls, forming dragons in the air. Without haste, Dorian taps the hot ash out of his pipe, scrapes the residue from the bowl with a pin.

_Am I beautiful, Cole?_

Cole cocks his head again. Reconsiders the question.  _They say you are._

_They?_

_Men. Women. Your father –_

Ancient feelings surge, dark as lampblack.  _Don’t!_ Dorian snarls.  _Don’t you dare speak of my father!_

Cole quiets. Watches Dorian’s reflection in the mirror. There are so many things that Cole could say. He just wants to heal Dorian’s hurts, but this hurt is too entangled in Dorian’s memories. A scar on his heart.

_Fathers shouldn’t do that to their sons, should they?_

_No,_ Dorian says weakly.  _They shouldn’t._

_It isn’t your fault, Dorian. You didn’t ask for it._

_Enough._

Cole quiets again.

Dorian reaches into the peacock box and withdraws another small, sticky, back ball of heaven. Fires the bowl, then inhales deeply. It helps. It helps.

_Am I beautiful, Cole?_

_Things are beautiful if you love them._

Dorian pauses. The room is hazy with smoke now. The world is soft.

_Am I beautiful, Dorian?_

Dorian’s eyes slither up and down the glass. Cole: pale as milk. Lithe. Two eyes like sky-colored jewels. Innocent.

_You’re not bad,_ Dorian says teasingly.  _Could stand fewer hats, though._

Cole considers. Then reaches up and removes his hat.

Dorian resist the urge to pass the lad a comb. Or a pair of scissors.

_Can we have sex now, Dorian?_

The pipe stem clacks between Dorian’s teeth. Smoke billows from his nose. In the mirror, Cole’s reflection is almost lost in the haze.

_That isn’t a wise decision._

_But you want to,_ Cole says, sensing.  _The idea of corrupting me intrigues you._

_True,_ Dorian says. Turning, he shoves the pipe between Cole’s lips.  _Now – be a good boy and suck._

Cole sucks.

It starts with a kiss. Cole, uncertain, doesn’t know what to do with his lips. Dorian’s tongue darts out. Traces Cole’s lips. Slips in. Tastes.

Cole tastes like apples. Breath sweet, warm. Human.

Dorian’s weight presses Cole’s body down to the bed.

 _Cole,_ he complains. _I’m not interested in sex with a corpse. Can’t you read my mind so you know what to do?_

_I’ll try._

Dorian languidly strokes the hair back from the boy’s face. Claims Cole’s mouth again. Moans in appreciation as Cole’s tongue and hips push back against his.

_Is that better, Dorian?_ Cole asks as Dorian’s clever hands deftly peel Cole out of his clothes. If he is going to corrupt the boy, they might as well have fun doing it. Straddling the spirit, he shrugs out of his robe, then reaches for the bedside drawer where he keeps his toys.

_Good boy,_ Dorian says approvingly as Cole gives Dorian his wrists to tie together to the bedpost. Dorian smiles as Cole opens his mouth. The three drops of elixir are sweet on his tongue. His tongue is slightly numb.

_What was that?_

Dorian reaches into the drawer again. Oils. Special implements. A feather. Smiles, sly.  _Just something to heat the blood._

_But, Dorian – my blood is already hot._

Dorian’s laughter is like a wolverine barking at the moon.

The feather tickles as it trails, making Cole squirm. Next, Dorian uncaps a bottle, rubbing the scented oil into Cole’s body. Exploring every inch of him. Rise of tender muscle. Cage of bone under fish-belly white skin. Cole’s blood hot as Dorian oils the implement, slowly grinding it in. Quivering as Dorian’s mouth closes over him.

_Dorian... that feels..._

Cole doesn’t finish. Words do not suffice. Dorian’s hands skim up his sides, fingers tapping an unheard melody along his ribs, as his tongue teases. Cole – spirit of the Fade trapped in a mortal coil – writhes. Cole wants. Cole needs.

Dorian is a terrible man. He enjoys deflowering the Fade spirit. Delights in uncorking the toy from Cole’s ass, folding the boy’s legs up against his chest, and driving his cock home with a few slow, slick thrusts. Possessing him utterly.

_Maker, Cole. You’re so fucking tight._

Cole’s pretty face is flushed pink.

As he writhes, the leather of the bindings creak.

Lost, Cole pants as Dorian’s fingers manipulate, dancing Cole away to his first sexual climax.

Solas is never going to forgive him.

 


	11. Cremisius Aclassi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian is not a nice man. Actually, in this chapter he's a total insensitive dick to everyone. Including Krem, who is my darling, so I kind of hate myself right now.

One evening, while Dorian is drinking downstairs, Sera and Michel de Chevin sit down, uninvited, at his table.

Michel de Chevin – disgraced chevalier once in the employ of Empress Celene. New agent for the Inquisition that they brought back from Emprise du Lion. He’d been chasing the demon Imshael. One of the Forbidden Ones, older than the darkspawn or the Tevinter Imperium. One of the four demons who had taught the magisters blood magic. Such ancient knowledge, such powers they could have gained from the Forbidden One, but the Inquisitor had killed it instead.

 _What a fucking waste,_ Dorian thinks. Naturally, Dorian doesn’t express this opinion aloud.

Michel de Chevin – that gorgeous hunk of a man. With that stupid Orlesian accent. Other than Cole, he is more fair-skinned, blue-eyed, and blonder than any man Dorian has ever seen. Upon his arrival, Michel usurped Cullen’s place as the most beautiful man at Skyhold. He quickly made friends with some of the younger soldiers after one night drinking in the tavern, including Dorian’s blond brothers. Michel de Chevin – good, noble, and pure of heart.

Maker, how Dorian hates men like this.

 _There are rumors about you,_ Michel says. _And of a certain room upstairs._

 _Yeah,_ Sera adds. _And by ‘rumors,’ what he really means is that there ain’t hardly a man left in Skyhold who hasn’t ridden you._

 _Actually,_ Dorian snarks, I’m _the one who is usually riding_ them.

Sera frowns. _They’re saying Cole’s been up there. In your fuck room. He ain’t even a person._

Dorian slides an indifferent finger along the wet rim of his glass, making it sing. _And we’re having this conversation because...?_

Michel folds his hands upon the table. _We’re having it because Sera and I are... concerned about you. We wish to help you._

Good Samaritans – how utterly pedestrian and completely annoying.

 _Shall I tell you what I think of your concern?_ Dorian drawls. _I think you should mind your own business. And – while you’re at it – you can fucking fuck off, for fuck’s sake._

Sera scowls. Growls. Leaves.

Michel remains seated, hands still folded. In his eyes – pity.

Dorian hates this man even more.

He smiles sweetly. _Monsieur de Chevin – if you really want to help me, why don’t you come up to my room?_

The Chevalier’s expression darkens. Lips turn down.

_Because that is not what I want._

_Well, what_ do _you want, then?_ Dorian’s voice turns frosty. _Oh, of course – pussy. How dreadfully banal. Sorry, but I don’t have one of those._

Shock distorts the Chevalier’s features. The effect Dorian was after.

_Monsieur Pavus..._

Gray eyes venomous. Voice dripping with condescension and hate.

_Well, then, Chevalier. I’ve given you the choices. Either come upstairs, or please get on with the business of fucking off._

A moment ticks by.

Then Michel rises from the table, sketching a stiff bow.

_As you wish, Monsieur._

 

*****

 

Later, someone softly raps on Dorian’s door.

Dorian’s lovers never knock. The embarrassed ones creep in, eyes on the floor. The reckless ones stride in, as if they own the place and everything in it. The drunk ones stagger in and begin pawing beneath Dorian’s robe. Whatever they do – Dorian doesn’t care.

Getting up to answer the door, though, annoys him.

For a moment, he supposes it is Michel de Chevin. That the chevalier has changed his mind. For a moment he hopes.

He is disappointed when he finds the lieutenant of the Chargers instead.

Time is sand, slipping through his fingers, as they stare wordlessly at each other.

Despite the fact that they are the only two ‘Vints at Skyhold, he and Krem are not friends. No, Krem is far too low class – the son of a tailor, a _soporatus_ , a common soldier. Briefly, he wonders what Krem wants, but he holds the scarlet ribbon in his hand.

Dorian doesn’t mince words. _Men only,_ he says in Tevene.

Krem’s spine stiffens. He replies in the same. _Are you implying that I’m not a man?_

The Charger may identify as male, and live as a man, but this doesn’t change the fact that all that hard, manly armor hides a purely female body.

 _Forgive me, Cremisius,_ Dorian drawls. _Let me rephrase that – I don’t do men with cunts._

Krem’s mouth twitches angrily. Then he tilts up his chin. In his gaze – a challenge.

_What if I did you with my dick?_

Dorian pauses. Considers that. _Show me._

Dorian steps aside, allowing Krem into his room. Shuts the door. Watches, expectant, as the swordsman unlaces his pants and withdraws his member for Dorian’s inspection.

It is smooth and silvery. Permanently at attention, it juts out from Krem’s body, inches from his flat, muscular belly. It possesses length, but not remarkable girth, uniform in thickness except the head of it, subtly larger than the slightly curving shaft. Well-made. Elegant.

Curious, Dorian moves closer. Touches it. Cold metal. Leather straps hold it in place.

Dorian withdraws his hand. Comes to a decision. _Fine,_ he says. _But I don’t want any female parts touching me._

_Fine._

Dorian saunters across the room. Retrieves the tin of grease.

_You can fuck me from behind._

Krem’s eyes are smoke. _Works for me._

Dorian drops the robe. Lets Krem drink in the glorious sight of him. Then he turns, positioning himself so that his chest is level with the vanity table, legs apart, his backside presented invitingly for the swordsman’s use.

Krem shuffles up behind him. Their eyes lock in the mirror.

 _Do you want me to get you ready?_ Krem asks. _Or would you rather do it yourself?_

Lazy, Dorian hands him the tin.

Dorian tries not to tense as Krem’s fingers bury themselves, twisting, deeper inside him. The thought of a woman fingering his ass disturbs him far more than it delights him. But a quick glance in the mirror confirms – visually, at least – that the person working him open is male.

Once Dorian’s body is ready, Krem wastes no time. Angling Dorian’s hips, Krem eases in.

Krem’s metal cock is cold at first, gradually warming from the heat of Dorian’s body. Harder than the real thing. Unyielding. _Dangerous._ But Krem knows what he’s doing, pumping into Dorian with long, leisurely, steady strokes.

Dorian has had many objects shoved inside him during foreplay, but none of them steel, and none of them thrust inside him as deliciously as this. Krem’s hips drive the metal shaft in an unrelenting rhythm as though he’d been born to fuck with it. The shaft itself feels really good – so slick, it slides in and out easily, effortlessly, rolling back and forth over Dorian’s pleasure spot.

He can’t help it. Dorian is panting, mewling, as Krem continues to expertly bang him into the table. A glance at the mirror reveals his wanton expression – eyes glazed, lips wet, mouth slack, smeared with pleasure. In the mirror, Krem hungrily watches Dorian’s face. Or watches Dorian’s hand playing between his own legs.

 _Damn, Dorian,_ Krem murmurs appreciatively. _You look so fucking hot._

Speaking is difficult, but Dorian manages, between heaving breaths.

_Cremisius... uh... are you... uh... getting anything out of this?_

_There’s some friction... yeah,_ Krem says. _Might... take a while, though._

Krem says it without breaking rhythm.

 _Uh..._ Dorian groans. _In that case, Cremisius... uh... carry on._


	12. The War Table

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian is not enjoying a threesome with the Inquisitor and Cullen. But does anyone care enough about the man from the North to come to his rescue?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The *dubious consent* and *rough sex* tag warnings really does come into play here, so read this at your own discretion.

They were all going to die. Everyone in the Inquisition. He was so sure of it.

Except they don’t.

Corypheus is dead. That much is certain. And the Inquisition throws a victory party.

In the Great Hall, Dorian drinks several glasses of spirits in quick succession, then continues to drink steadily as the evening wears on.

Dorian doesn’t have many friends at Skyhold. He has lovers. Men willing to perform the most depraved acts in private, but who, in public, act as if he doesn’t exist. Their eyes sweep past him as if he is merely part of the décor – a leather armchair. A dwarven water clock. A tapestry.

One man looks at him. The Chevalier. Michel de Chevin. Always watching him from a distance. Silent. Judging. Dorian knows his type: a pious, self-righteous, live-by-a-code son of a bitch. The most beautiful man in Skyhold, if not all of Thedas.

Echo of Cole: _Things are beautiful if we love them._

But, no... that isn’t... no.

Only Varric approaches him at the party. With a twinkle in his eye.

_So, Sparkler. The Inquisitor managed to pull a miracle right out of his ass. I guess that means you owe me twenty royals._

_I’m a bit strapped for cash, so good luck collecting on that bet._

_Well, I suppose I could send a letter to your family – you know, to inform them of your recent activities._

_Ooh, the dwarf plays dirty!_ Dorian says, with eyes narrowed into slits. But he then gives Varric a lascivious smile. _Or you could just come to my room and let me make it up to you in some other way._

Varric chuckles. _Sorry, Sparkler. You’re not my type._

_What? Everyone likes tall, dark, dreamy and dashing._

Before Varric can reply, Cullen appears at Dorian’s elbow, and seizes the mage by the arm.

_Come with me. The Inquisitor and I would like to celebrate our victory. With you._

Varric watches as Cullen whisks Dorian away, towards the Inquisitor, who waits near the door that leads to the War Room.

 

*****

 

If Varric were going to write this scene, it would be something like this:

It as sweet and loving as sex between three men can be. Dorian’s skin is golden in the soft candlelight as the Commander and the Inquisitor painstakingly peel him out of his clothes, trailing soft, exploratory kisses along the exposed ridges and planes of his body. Two tongues chasing each other up the length of Dorian’s silky bronze shaft. Dorian deliciously sucking the Inquisitor’s fingers while Cullen languidly fingers him, oiling and opening. Cocks sliding and gliding, glistening, eliciting sweet gasps of pleasure. The Inquisitor touching himself as he watches Dorian and Cullen – _so pretty together!_ – as Dorian rides the ex-Templar, their breaths and moans mingling in each others’ mouths.

In the aftermath, they lie together, blissed out with pleasure, limbs entangled, drinking champagne out of tall glasses and laughing at the Inquisitor’s bad jokes.

 

*****

 

Or, it happens like this:

They make Dorian their toy. An object for their sexual gratification. A target for their secret sadistic impulses.

Dorian is on his hands and knees, both men thrusting roughly into him, on the War Table. Before him, the Inquisitor, both hands on the back of Dorian’s head, holding him still as the Inquisitor rams his cock into Dorian’s mouth. Cullen slams into Dorian from behind, his slightly-long nails leaving bloody quarter moons where they ruthlessly dig into Dorian’s hips.

Cullen and the Inquisitor goad each other on.

They have only just begun.

When Dorian makes a show of resistance, both men pin him down. He can scarcely breathe from the weight of a knee on his back. Then Cullen uses his Templar abilities to tamp down Dorian’s magic.

Rendered helpless, Dorian is no longer able to resist.

Something in Dorian’s perspective shifts.

Dorian shouldn’t care. He never does. But it’s different now. They didn’t die. The world has a future now.

Still, he doesn’t tell them to stop. He is their _filthy slut boy whore_ , nothing more. Over and over, they tell him so. He is their _pretty little Tevinter bitch._ Who is he to argue? They are giving him _what he wants._

With systematic and diabolic intent, they reduce Dorian to a quivering wreck. He is merely a receptacle. A hole. With limbs to twist, and flesh to bruise and stretch.  

Dorian whimpers. He screams. He begs.

Blood wells in the marks that their teeth make in his _filthy slut boy whore’s_ body. Hot are the tears that spill, splashing on the War Table, from his _pretty little Tevinter bitch_ eyes.

 

*****

 

Cole appears behind Michel de Chevin in the Great Hall of Skyhold.

 _They’re hurting him,_ Cole murmurs, voice low, in the chevalier’s ear. _His mouth says yes, but his heart cries no._

Michel remains silent. Considering. _Why are you telling me this?_

Cole’s cold dead fish gaze. _Alpha dog baring his throat. White teeth that snap. The man from the north is so beautiful, so broken – I want to save him._

Michel stares at Cole, expression fixed, as immutable as an Orlesian mask. Then he sighs.

_Cole – fetch anyone who cares enough about Dorian to defend him, then meet me at the War Room._

At the War Room door, Cole meets Michel. With him is the Iron Bull.

The door is locked. Michel’s fist thunders against it. Through the wood, they hear mildly disgruntled murmurings, followed by the snap of Cullen’s voice.

_Whoever is out there – leave now._

Michel frowns. Then turns to the Qunari, gesturing at the door.

_If you wouldn’t mind...?_

Bull steps forward. With one mighty blow of his monstrous fist, he bashes the door open.

Cullen and the Inquisitor scramble back from the table. Maps and markers have been cast aside. The only thing upon it now is Dorian, naked, curled in a fetal position, his skin covered with bite marks. Bruises. Scratches.

The Inquisitor is indignant. _What do you think you’re doing?_

Michel unclasps his cloak. Covers Dorian with it. _What you’re doing to this man – you should be ashamed of yourselves._

Cullen and the Inquisitor stare in shock.

Then Cullen snorts. _He gets off on it. He likes it rough._

 _You crossed the line,_ Cole says. _You took away the Fade. He couldn’t fight you anymore. You took away his choice._

In Cullen’s jaw, the angry twitch of a muscle. _All of you, just... get out._

Bull crosses his arms. _You’re awfully demanding for a man who isn’t wearing a weapon, much less pants._

Cullen fumes. Whips his head around. _Inquisitor...?_

The Inquisitor turns away. Eyes shadowed. Words aimed over his shoulder at Michel.

_Take him._

Michel turns to Bull again.

_If you wouldn’t mind...?_

Bull shrugs. Then picks up the beautiful, broken mage and carries him in his arms, pressed so close to his chest that Dorian can hear his beating heart, all the way back to his room at the Herald’s Rest.

 


	13. Michel de Chevin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Je ne veux pas vivre sans toi._

Late the next day, Dorian wakes.

He breaks his fast with bread, apples and chocolate, all washed down with watered-down wine. Then he performs with ablutions with care.

He leisurely washes every part of his body with soap scented with musk and cloves. Applies a light almond oil to his skin. Drying his hair with a towel, he considers his reflection.

There are bite marks – visible where they broke skin – all around his shoulders and chest. His thighs, back and his ass are a map of scratches. And on every part of him, the bloom of bruises.

Dorian sits before the mirror. Carefully shaves. Waxes his mustache and cleans his teeth. Finally, once he’s fixed his hair, he slips on his pale silk dressing robe, ties the scarlet ribbon to the latch of the door, and waits.

No one comes.

No one wants him tonight.

Eventually, Dorian tires of waiting. With a growl of exasperation, he tosses off his robe. Puts on his clothes. Angrily buckles his boots. Shoves his purse into his belt and then opens the door to head downstairs, stopping at the door to untie the ribbon.

The scarlet ribbon no longer hangs from the latch.

Someone stole it. Someone stole his _fucking_ ribbon.

There isn’t much he can do. He will have to buy one from the merchants, or beg another one from Sera.

Down in the tavern, he drinks. Alone.

Hours later, back in his room, he kicks off his boots. Stands at his desk. Picks up the sharp silvery little knife.

Upstairs, on the third floor of the tavern, Cole lurks. Hears Dorian’s thoughts. Senses Dorian’s _hurt, so much hurt, please, Maker, no more._

Dorian was once the scion of a prestigious house. Rich, noble, and destined for greatness. If he’d stayed – been willing to pretend – he would have been one of the most powerful men in Eastern Tevinter. But now he has no glorious future. Now he’s just the Whore of Skyhold.

The funny thing is that he’s still screaming on the inside.

He can picture it, you know. His beautiful bronze body lying lifeless in the woods outside of Skyhold, the crimson of his blood a brilliant and startling contrast against the virginal white snow.

But it’s cold out and he’s too lazy.

He has studied anatomy so he knows where to cut. As he places the knife to his throat, he wonders if anyone would cry at his funeral.

A demanding, but well-timed series of knocks rain down upon the door.

With a sigh, Dorian tosses aside the knife. _Come in._

The door opens, revealing Michel de Chevin.

_Well, if it isn’t the knight in shining armor. I suppose you expect me to thank you for coming to my rescue last night?_

Mask on, Michel regards him with near-perfect indifference. _I didn’t do it for gratitude. I did it because it was the right thing to do._

Dorian snorts. _Tell me – don’t you ever get tired of being so bloody good and noble all the time?_

_I wish that you wouldn’t say such things. You do not know the things I have done. Of my... disgrace. I am not a good man._

Dorian frowns. Maker, this man is beautiful. Dorian hates him. Hates his stupid Orlesian accent and his habit of trying to save him. Dorian does _not_ want this man. He doesn’t want to lick the scar that jags through the chevalier’s left eyebrow, or the one that runs just below, close to his eye. He does _not._

_Well, then, what are you doing here?_

He doesn’t say how Cole came to him, whispering of Dorian’s crimson blood spattered across the mirror and pooling on the floor. Or how he raced to Dorian’s door.

_I want to know how it works – this red ribbon of yours._

Dorian crosses his arms, tilting up his chin. _Quite simply. If I want a man, I tie the ribbon to the door. If a man wants me, he unties it._

Michel pauses. Then he reaches into his jerkin. From within, he draws out Dorian’s ribbon.

_You! You stole my ribbon!_

Dorian strides forward, reaching to snatch the ribbon from Michel’s hand. But the chevalier quickly shoves it back inside his jerkin.

_I think I should keep this. For a while._

_What?_ Dorian is outraged. _You have no right! I’m not your fucking charity case! I don’t need you to interfere in my–_

Michel does not allow Dorian to finish. Instead, he lifts both hands to Dorian’s face. Stepping forward, Michel leans in and kisses him.

A coy kiss. Warm as a summer’s breath. Soft as ermine hide. Sweet as candied dates.

Heart staggered, Dorian stares at him, frozen, as Michel draws back, fingers tracing softly along Dorian’s jaw line. Thumb brushing over Dorian’s lips.

_Mon amour,_ Michel breathes. _Tu est l’homme de mes rêves. Je ne veux pas vivre sans toi._

Dorian continues to stare, even as Michel begins to dance him towards the bed. His voice uncertain. _I... ah... don’t speak Orlesian...?_

_I want you, Dorian._

_And... since when has this been a... thing?_

_Ever since I first saw you outside of Sahrnia in Emprise du Lion._

Michel draws Dorian down to the bed. Unbuckles the mage out of his clothes as well as removing his own. Finds every bruise, every mark, every scratch on Dorian’s body and tenderly kisses it.

_Mon amour, je t’adore. Let me pleasure you._

As Michel’s beautiful lips close over Dorian’s cock, Dorian arches his back, pressing a hand to his mouth, moaning around his fist.

Michel swallows down Dorian’s cock like he loves it. He worships it with his tongue. Sings its praises with small noises of pleasure humming through his throat. Dorian feels each sound trickle up his shaft and straight up his spine. It is joyous. Glorious.

Has a man ever treated him so tenderly, but with such fiery passion?

Quite simply, no.

Dorian’s hands scramble. Seize onto shoulder and hair, tugging the blond man back up.

_Michel... get inside me. Please._

_As you wish._

They kneel on the bed. Michel has one arm around about Dorian’s waist, his hand at the small of the bronze back, holding him close, as his tongue sweetly explores Dorian’s mouth, and his other hand, fingers oiled, glides down Dorian’s backside, then up and in. As his fingers curl, Dorian trembles against him, his cry reverberating through the room.

_Now, Michel. Oh Maker, take me now._

The chevalier pulls Dorian into his lap. Hissing breath as Michel holds Dorian’s hips, and guides himself slowly, inch by incredible inch, inside Dorian, filling him to the hilt.

As he rides, Dorian throws his arms around Michel’s neck.

_Mon amour, je t’aime._

It doesn’t matter what the Orlesian says. All Dorian cares about now is how amazing it feels to be drenched in Michel’s sweet passion, Michel plunging into him over and over, as smoothly as if they’d been made for each other. How Michel’s strong hand moves up and down Dorian’s shaft, his mouth alternating between kissing Dorian’s lips and his neck. Maker, it feels too good. He’s going to come already. They’ve barely started. It’s too soon.

_Shit, Michel... wait... I’m going to...uh... fuck!_

Suddenly Michel is pounding into him – harder, deeper, faster. Hand stroking in time. With an uninhibited cry, Dorian stiffens, then shudders as his come spills all over Michel’s hand.

Beneath him, Michel thrusts into him once more, groaning in blissful agony as he pulses deep within Dorian’s body.

 

*****

 

They lie on Dorian’s bed. In the quiet.

Dorian lies on his side, his position almost fetal. Behind him, Michel is curled round his back, one arm slung across Dorian’s waist. Dorian’s skin is hot where Michel presses against him.

The windowpanes are ink black.

Dorian doesn’t know how long they’ve been lying here like this. Perhaps an hour. Maybe more – he thinks he may have dozed off for a bit.

_You’re still here?_

Michel presses up closer against him. Arm tightening around him. _You asked me what I wanted once. This. This is what I want._

Dorian twists loose. Sits up. Gray eyes seeking blue in the dim light of sputtering candles.

_You presume a lot, Chevalier,_ Dorian snarls. _First of all, you presume that I’d even be interested in what you’re proposing. Second of all, I don’t–_

Dorian’s words die in his throat as Michel takes Dorian’s face in his hands again, leaning up to kiss him once more.

Soft, warm, sweet. Staggering his heart and robbing him of speech again.

Breathless, Dorian lets Michel pull him back down to the bed. Down into his arms, with kisses languid and silken.

In the arms of Michel de Chevin, Dorian does feel something.

Strangely, electrically alive.

Unexpectedly, tenderly loved.

Safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that ending satisfied.
> 
> It looks like this is my most popular story. I'm assuming you all came for the smut. In that case, I'm just going to have to write MORE smut. 
> 
> Feel free to come check out ["Madame Tullerie's Love Potion #5"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4836848/chapters/11078228) That means the premise is basically "Fuck or Die". Series of one-shots. Please give me suggestions of pairings you would love to see in that scenario! (Also let me know what style of writing you want - angst, fluff, dark, humor, crack, etc., and which character(s) get dosed.) M/M or F/M pairings preferred. Or go for orgy. I don't care.


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